Subtext
by NotesfromaClassroom
Summary: Communication ought to come easy to a talented linguist and a logical Vulcan, right? Think again. A series of written messages between Spock and Uhura, starting in their Academy days and going through "Darkness."
1. Overthinking

**Chapter One: Overthinking**

**Disclaimer: No money made here. All for love.**

"You're definitely overthinking this," Gaila says. "It's just an email from your professor, not the end of the universe."

She lies sprawled across her unmade bed, a fingernail file in one hand, her other hand raised in what Nyota knows is the Orion signal of bemusement. On the opposite bed, Nyota sits cross-legged, her largest PADD in her lap. At the moment her hands are also raised—palms up, fingers spread in the universal human symbol of "you've gotta be kidding me."

"I'm not overthinking anything," she says, her eyes on the screen of her PADD. With a sudden motion she stabs one finger at the offending email from her xenolinguistics professor, Commander Spock, the source of her sour mood. "Where Commander Spock is concerned, you _have_ to be precise."

Gaila lifts one eyebrow in an uncanny imitation of the Vulcan commander. "You mean _you _have to be precise. The heavens forbid that you get a bad grade for once. Give it a rest, Ny. Join the ranks of us mere mortals who don't always get top marks. You don't have to be the best student in every class you take."

Gaila's words are teasing but her halfway-serious tone catches Nyota by surprise.

"That's what you think of me?" she says, lowering her hands and sitting back against the headboard. "That all I'm worried about is outscoring everyone?"

"I don't _think _it. I _know_ it," Gaila says, ducking as Nyota tosses a pillow at her head.

"You're wrong!" Despite herself, Nyota laughs. More than anyone she knows, Gaila has a way of knocking the wind out of her sails, of making her take herself less seriously and with more humor and grace than is easy or natural. No matter how annoying her roommate can be—her inconvenient love life, her habitual messiness—Nyota values her ability to keep her grounded.

Except that this time she's wrong. Commander Spock is being unfair.

Not that there isn't a kernel of truth to what Gaila says. The semester has barely started and already Nyota is struggling to stay ahead of the reading assignments in Commander Spock's seminar. When other students warned her away from his section before she signed up, she had scoffed. "If he's the hardest professor in the department, then he's absolutely the one I need to take," she said. Now three weeks into the course, that sounds suspiciously like hubris.

Not that the Commander isn't an interesting lecturer, or that his class discussions aren't incisive and illuminating. If anything, Nyota thinks he's one of the best instructors she's had yet at the Academy, and she's had plenty of terrific teachers in her two years here. In the seminar he's especially intense, probably because it is small—15 students—and all are communications majors. More often than not when the dismissal bell chimes, Nyota is so entangled in discussing some finer point with the Commander that when she looks up she's surprised that they are the only two left in the room.

"Okay," Nyota said, "let's say that I'm competitive." She hears a little puff of air as Gaila parts her lips to speak. Hurrying to head her off, Nyota adds, "_Overly _competitive. Even so, you have to admit that this note would upset anyone."

Gaila tucks Nyota's errant pillow under her head and starts to file one nail. "Read it to me again."

Picking up her PADD, Nyota reads, "_To Cadet Nyota Uhura, Member, Class 2254 (est.)_ Look! See that." She holds up the PADD toward Gaila.

"See what?" Gaila says. "He got everything right."

"Technically," Nyota concedes. "But he didn't have to put that little "estimated" in there. There's nothing in my record to indicate I won't graduate on time."

Gaila rolls her eyes. "Back to my original comment, Ny. You're overthinking this. Commander Spock is a Vulcan, right? They love technicalities. It's who they are. That has nothing to do with you."

Nyota harrumphs loudly. "That's not all," she says, lifting the PADD to eye level. "_Be advised that the most recent draft of your paper on Tartainian fricatives includes a reference to research that no longer meets the required standard of academic review. Please schedule an appointment to discuss necessary revisions_."

"So?" Gaila says. "He's giving you a chance to fix your paper before he grades it. Sounds like you're the teacher's pet alright."

"That's not what he's saying at all! He's questioning my citations, saying there's something wrong with one of them. But I _know_ they're okay. I triple checked everything. I even ran them by Professor Salendar first. He grew up on a Tartainian colony world. If anyone would know if I got my facts straight, he would."

"Commander Spock didn't question your facts," Gaila says. "He questioned your_ citation_ of a fact. Since you're being precise, maybe you need to think about what he's actually saying."

Nyota snorts and puts her PADD back on her lap. As much as she hates to admit it, Gaila has a point. Still, she's certain that her documentation is correct. With a sigh, she calls up Commander Spock's office schedule. Most of the available hours are during her other classes, but he has an opening this afternoon. She hesitates for a moment, her finger hovering over her PADD. Later would be better—she'll have time to cool down if she waits. On the other hand, he's wrong, and the sooner he realizes it, the sooner she can get back to finishing up the final draft of her paper.

She taps on the time slot and types out a short reply.

"There," she says with a flourish. "That takes care of that." She feels her mood already starting to lift. She'll meet with Commander Spock in a few hours and set him right. Glancing at the time on her PADD, she plans what she needs to do in the meantime. A short run, maybe down to the marina and back. A quick shower and a light lunch. Start on next week's assignment for her advanced physics class. Answer some emails to friends back home.

And yes, look over the citations in her paper about Tartainian fricatives. Just to make sure she hasn't missed anything. Which, of course, she knows she hasn't.

Narrowing her eyes, she conjures up an image of Commander Spock sitting stiffly behind his desk, his instructor grays impeccable as always, not a hair out of place. "See this," she will say, her finger resting on the citation page of her paper. "Every reference is perfect."

What will the unflappable commander do? Flush in embarrassment? Stutter an apology? Do Vulcans ever admit when they are wrong? It will be interesting to see.

"Why are you smiling?" Gaila asks. "What are you thinking about?"

"Oh, nothing," Nyota says smugly. "I'm not thinking about anything at all."

X X

Long before the knock at his door, Spock knows that Professor Artura is making his way down the hallway toward the office. Like the majority of Andorians, he is thin and deliberate in his motions, his blue skin and white hair an aesthetically interesting contrast. Since dividing his time between the computer science and the language departments, Spock has come to know the elderly professor fairly well—or at least well enough to be able to anticipate his moods based on the actions of his never-still antennae.

Right now Professor Artura's antenna are almost flat, looking like two blue stubby fingers pointing directly at Spock. Curiosity, then. The Professor has come on what Spock's mother likes to call a "fishing expedition."

"Commander," he says with a little bob at the waist. "May I come in?"

Stifling a sigh, Spock moves away from the door and Professor Artura follows him to an empty chair beside his desk. "Please," Spock says, motioning to the chair as he settles into his own. Touching the computer screen, he closes the note he had been composing to Cadet Uhura.

If he's feeling more flustered than usual, that's to be expected. Twelve minutes ago he received a baffling note from the cadet, and he's been considering how to reply ever since.

"_Be advised_," her note said, "_that your most recent communication to me concerning my paper on Tartainian fricatives is in error in concluding that one of my citations includes a reference to research that no longer meets the required standard of academic review. I have scheduled an appointment to discuss necessary revisions to your assessment_. _Cadet Nyota Uhura, Class of 2254 (est.)"_

Her note is almost a copy of the one he sent to her earlier, but by adding a few words, she's turned the meaning around and changed the tone entirely. While his original note was straightforward and clear cut, Spock is puzzled by the way her reply feels…impolite? Mocking? Angry, perhaps, though he can't sort out why she might be. He is, after all, offering her a chance to update her paper with information not readily available to her. Last night he had been checking the preliminary newsfeed from the J'alia Tou Outer Rim Languages Conference when a presentation about Tartainian fricatives caught his eye. The preeminent authority in the field—the one Cadet Uhura quotes in her paper—admitted that his early work had not been with Tartainian natives but with inhabitants of one of their colony worlds, casting his research conclusions in doubt. While the language spoken on the colony world might be similar to the native speakers, it is more likely that the vowels have drifted or the fricatives have diverged. No one knows yet, but the cadet needs to indicate the possibility in her paper.

When she comes for a conference, he'll check his interpretation of the tone of her note against her vocal and facial expressions. It is quite possible that he is, as his mother sometimes accuses him, _overthinking _things. After all, the cadet is a gifted student who welcomes criticism and is eager to learn.

On reflection, perhaps that is precisely the reason she sounds annoyed in her note. Rather than explaining the reason for questioning her citation, he requested a conference instead. An exceptional student such as Cadet Uhura would be eager to begin the corrections to the paper and might find an office consultation a waste of her time. She might, he realizes, have felt insulted, or at the very least, misjudged. The idea makes him flush.

He see now that he should have sent her a link to the conference papers without asking her to make an office appointment to discuss them in person. Far off in one corner of his mind he examines and quickly puts aside one possible explanation for his actions—that he enjoys her company and wants to continue their contact outside of the classroom. A possibility, and one that makes him flush again. If that _is_ the case, now that he's brought it to his consciousness, it won't happen again.

All this he thinks in the blink of eye as Professor Artura leans forward in his chair. Again Spock stifles a sigh. The professor is often an unwelcome interruption to the day, indulging in casual conversation –or at least attempting to—and stopping by Spock's office frequently to proffer tea.

"I came to ask your advice," he says in the sibilant lisp characteristic of Andorians. "You know that the dean has approved the funding for teaching assistants next year. I'm looking for someone with a particular interest in the Beta Quadrant languages. The only students I know who are truly fluent in Klingon are graduating this year. I was hoping that you might have a suggestion of someone in your seminar who might be interested. Just for teaching, I think. I'm not doing any research at the moment."

Cadet Uhura is fluent—or nearly so—in Klingon. As far as Spock knows, she is the only one in his seminar who is. Indeed, he doesn't know another student with similar proficiency.

Until now he had not given much thought to the dean's notice about future teaching assistants. He hesitates a fraction of a second before answering.

"I am sorry," he says, lacing his fingers together and resting his hands on the desktop. "I can think of no candidates who would be suitable for you."

Professor Artura's antennae droop closer to his head, an indicator of his disappointment.

"Oh!" he says, surprised. "I was so hopeful you would know someone!"

With that he stands slowly. Spock rises and tucks his hands behind his back, watching Professor Artura make his way out the door. As the sound of his shuffling footsteps echoes down the hall, Spock sits and tabs open his computer screen.

Cadet Uhura's note springs open. Reading it once more, this time Spock is convinced she is annoyed.

With a tap of his finger he sends her the link to the conference papers. For a moment he considers following up with a note explaining why—but she will understand that he's recognizing—belatedly—that she can read and understand them for herself.

With another tap he calls up his office calendar and scans the appointment time she requested. He lets his finger hang in the air for a moment, and then with a decisive push, presses delete.

**A/N: Hello, everyone! I've been away for awhile writing original short stories and playing in the "Elementary" fandom, but Star Trek always has been and always shall be my best friend. **

**I hope you enjoy where this new story takes us. Although I've never been much of a fan of epistolary novels—you know, those books that are set up as a series of letters between characters—I do think it will be fun to explore what happens when Spock and Uhura write all kinds of things to each other, starting in their Academy days and going all the way through "Darkness." If that interests you as well, let me know!**


	2. Recommendation

**Chapter Two: Recommendation**

**Disclaimer: No money made. Lots of love, though.**

Spock pauses inside the double doors of the main student cafeteria of Starfleet Academy. By human reckoning the hour is early—0715—but already both breakfast lines are full and over a hundred students are seated at the long tables. Scanning the room, Spock revises his estimation. 117 students are seated, some hunched over bowls of hot grain cereal and fruit or nursing a cup of coffee silently, but even more of them interrupting their food intake to converse with each other.

The noise level is jarring, or would be if Spock allowed it. He won't be here more than a minute or two—just long enough to find Cadet Uhura and give her the recommendation she requested for her summer internship with Professor Ellison on the lunar relay station.

He could have sent the recommendation electronically, of course. However, his last experience with sending an email to Cadet Uhura had been less than satisfactory. The resulting misunderstanding over her paper on Tartainian fricatives caught him completely off-guard, as did her palpable anger at the next class meeting. Only now—at the end of the semester—does she seem comfortable again in his presence. Indeed, on the last day of class, she had lingered behind after the other students departed and told him of her plans to apply for Professor Ellison's summer internship. Would he, she wondered, be willing to write her a recommendation?

"I assumed you would find a summer position here in San Francisco," he said, trying to hide his surprise—and his dismay. "There are many suitable internships available for a student of your caliber."

She had smiled then, not the kind of sly or timid smile he sometimes saw when students were given praise, but a large grin that didn't try to hide her pleasure in his assessment of her abilities.

"I appreciate that, but I think I need a break," she said, "and I've always wanted to visit the moon."

They walked out of the empty classroom together, parting at the top of the stairs. He should have written the recommendation right then and sent it directly to Professor Ellison, but Spock was understandably skittish about writing something that Cadet Uhura might misconstrue. The logical plan—and the safest one—was to let her read it first before he submitted it. In fact, he could encode a signature chip in a flimplast and she could turn it in to Professor Ellison herself.

Yet when he sat down to compose the recommendation he faltered, struggling to find a balance between being scrupulously honest and overly enthusiastic. In every way she was the perfect candidate for the internship—hard-working, dedicated, talented. If he'd thought ahead, he could have offered her a summer internship helping him with the annual revision of the Kobayashi Maru test, something that might have appealed to her.

He rested his wrists on the edge of his desk and curled his fingers above the keyboard of his computer.

"_Cadet Uhura is both intelligent and beautiful." _

With a start, he glanced down at his computer screen. He would never write such words—a human judgment, the kind of thing his mother might say. He stared at the blinking cursor waiting for…something. After another fruitless minute, he stopped trying and spent the rest of the evening meditating cross-legged in front of his _asenoi_.

He'd tried several more times since then to write the recommendation, each version less satisfactory than the one before it. A conundrum—and a refutation of the Earth saying that _practice makes perfect_.

Then last night Cadet Uhura sent him a note—a terse email that both shamed him and spurred him to finish her request.

_Commander Spock, Three days ago you agreed to write a recommendation for my summer internship application. If you are either unwilling or unable to do so, please let me know and I will ask someone else. The deadline is fast approaching. Cadet N. Uhura, Class of 2254 (est.)_

Unwilling or unable. He was neither, he thought quickly, and then, just as quickly, he realized that he was both—and why. How astonishing—the unlooked for discovery that the idea of her absence during the summer was so disagreeable.

In a flurry of activity he had put words together and resolved to seek her out the next morning.

Except that now she doesn't seem to be in the cafeteria. Looking around once more, Spock is certain she is not here, though he spots her roommate, Cadet Farlijah-Endef, one of only a handful of Orions at Starfleet, a reason Spock has been a vocal advocate for a more robust recruitment program to non-Terrans.

Hesitating a fraction of a second, he makes his way across the cafeteria towards her table.

"Commander!" she says, clearly startled when he stops in front of her. "Can I help you?"

"I was looking for Cadet Uhura," he says, placing the flimplast on the table. "This contains the recommendation she asked me to write. I believe she needs it as soon as possible, and since she is not here at the moment—"

"You want me to give it to her?"

"If it does not inconvenience you."

Cadet Farlijah-Endef shakes her head, her red curls bouncing. "Of course not! I'm heading back to the room in a few minutes. She's probably still there."

He's about to respond when over the cadet's shoulder he sees Cadet Uhura herself walking in the door at the far end of the cafeteria. Opening his mouth to tell Cadet Farlijah-Endef that he won't need her as his messenger after all, Spock sees a male cadet walking beside her, gesticulating wildly with upraised hands. Although they are too far away to hear what they are saying, Spock can see that the male is talking, a smile on his face. Cadet Uhura's expression is harder to read, her head bent low, her gaze on the floor ahead of her.

Suddenly Spock is aware that Cadet Farlijah-Endef is looking at him curiously and he turns his attention back to her.

"Thank you," he says, and then he adds, "Professor Ott has mentioned your work in the simulation programming lab. It has been exemplary."

The cadet flushes a darker green at the compliment and Spock says, "If you are interested in a summer programming internship, I have a position available. The details will be posted on the campus newsfeed later today. See me if you wish to apply."

As he walks away he sees her bob her head, her teeth flashing in a wide grin, her torso twisting in what he assumes is an Orion show of approval.

Already Spock has an unsettling sensation of weariness and unease. Offering the position to Cadet Farlijah-Endef may have been a mistake. Hurrying out into the early morning sunlight, he decides it is too late to change anything now.

X X

"This is for you," Gaila says as Nyota sets a tray on the table and slides into a chair next to her at breakfast. "Hand delivered by your favorite professor."

"You have a favorite professor?" Jim Kirk quips as he slides into a chair on the other side of Gaila. Nyota narrows her eyes at him and then pointedly looks away, taking the flimplast from Gaila. Not that she dislikes Kirk—he can be funny and charming and underneath his puppy dog energy he sometimes slips up and shows a glimmer of real intelligence—but she does distrust him. He is overconfident to a fault, and an inveterate flirt, and if Gaila weren't a bigger one, Nyota would worry that her roommate is heading for a broken heart—or whatever is the equivalent metaphor for Orion love affairs gone sour.

Taking a sip of her coffee, Nyota angles the flimplast and begins to read.

"_Cadet Uhura was a member of my spring semester biolinguistics seminar. She successfully completed the course work and can, if she chooses, register for the advanced section in the fall. Her research project was adequate and has been accepted for publication in the Journal of Xenolinguistics. Her ability to distinguish phonemic subtleties is not hampered noticeably by the limits of human auditory perception. Her contributions to the class were many."_

That's it? Five sentences? Five sentences that say almost nothing—or rather, seem to symbolize, with their own boring mediocrity, something about her character. She sets her cup down so hard that coffee sloshes over the rim. Both Gaila and Kirk turn to look at her.

"What is it? You look upset," Gaila says.

Pushing back her chair, Nyota stands up abruptly and says, "I have to go." Without looking back she starts through the crowded cafeteria, Jim Kirk calling behind her, "Hey! Don't you want your breakfast?"

As she storms across the commons to the astrophysics building where Professor Ellison has an office, she rehearses what she'll say—that she knows it is unusual to ask, but can he see his way clear to grant her an extension on her application deadline? The hold up is the recommendation—yes, she's gotten one, but she'd obviously failed to explain to Commander Spock what such a request entailed—because what he returned to her was unsuitable. Useless, really. An extension would give her time to ask someone else.

When she's shown into the office, she says none of this, however, deciding that it would sound like an excuse rather than a corrective to Commander Spock's anemic assessment of her. Sitting primly in the chair opposite Professor Ellison's desk, her hands folded on her lap, one knee crossed over the other, she controls her breathing with effort, trying not to let her anger show.

If only Commander Spock had written his recommendation earlier, she could have done an end-run around him with time to spare. The thought makes her face hot with anger—and if she is honest, with shame. All this time she thought he saw her work as exemplary, saw _her_ as an excellent student, certainly more than merely _adequate_. She feels damned with praise of the faintest kind.

Too late to change anything now.

She watches as Professor Ellison reads over her application—and the flimplast with Commander Spock's recommendation.

For a few minutes the only sound in the small office is the steady thrum of the air exchanger overhead. Then Professor Ellison clears his throat and sets most of the application papers on his desk, keeping the flimplast in his hand. Nyota shifts uneasily in her chair.

Looking up, Professor Ellison says, "Let's talk about this."

_Here it comes_, she thinks. _Here's where I don't get the internship._

"This is really…something," he says, and she blinks and nods and says, "Yes, I know."

Professor Ellison leans back in his chair. "I don't think I've ever seen a recommendation quite like this. Is this the first time you've taken a course with Commander Spock?"

"Yes," Nyota says, biting her bottom lip. "And I guess it will be my last."

Professor Ellison gives her an odd look and says, "It needn't be. He's approved you for the advanced seminar."

At that Nyota gives a little huff of air. "_Approved_ isn't exactly the word. He said I could take it if I wanted to. I suppose that's something."

Again Professor Ellison looks at her oddly. "Well, yes. Yes, it is. When I checked the posted course results, you were the only one he _did_ approve for the advanced seminar."

Nyota's lips are already parted to say something, anything, to try to rescue her chances for the internship when the meaning of Professor Ellison's words come through. She blinks in surprise and closes her mouth like a goldfish. "I'm sorry, did you say I was the only one he approved?"

Tapping the flimplast with his finger, Professor Ellison says, "I can't remember the last time Commander Spock gave such high praise. And you're lucky he sponsored your project for publication. Coming from him, that means a great deal. He doesn't sponsor student work very often."

"He said it was _adequate_!" Nyota blurts out. A hint of amusement ripples across Professor Ellison's expression.

"Well, it was, wasn't it? I mean, what does adequate mean? Fulfilling its function, right? Any less and it would have been inadequate. Any more would have been superfluous."

He laughs then, and Nyota feels her shoulders loosen, as if she's just run a long distance.

"Then—then, this is okay?" she asks, and Professor Ellison laughs again.

"Better than okay," he says. "You did a good job in his class and he wants you to sign up for the advanced section. You published your research. Your hearing and analytical skills are as good as any human's can be. Like I said, high praise coming from Commander Spock. The only thing I don't quite understand is this last sentence."

He holds up the flimplast and reads, "_Her contributions to the class were many_. That's unusually vague for a Vulcan. Any idea what he might have meant by that?"

Although she is sitting motionless on the chair, both of her feet firmly on the ground, Nyota has a moment of such intense dizziness that for a moment she feels her world shift. A wave of understanding crashes over her—and with it, she imagines herself through the Commander's eyes—how she is almost always the first one to arrive and the last one to leave class; how her words tumble over each other when she gets caught up in a discussion; how she gives each assignment her full focus; how she is proud and stubborn and competitive, but also loyal to her classmates and willing to learn from criticism.

_Her contributions to the class were many. _

She remembers the intense interest he took in whatever she said during class, the way he would cant his head slightly to the side and listen as if she were the only person in the room. The many times he followed her to the door of the emptying classroom as she hurried to finish one more comment, his hands tucked neatly behind his back, his eyes reflecting patience—even bemusement. Her conviction that despite what she knows about Vulcans, she has sensed undercurrents of emotion when he looks at her, when he speaks to her—distress and relief and something else, too, which she can't quite believe or name.

She looks up and sees Professor Ellison waiting.

"I'm—I'm sorry," she stutters. "I really don't know what he meant at all."

Professor Ellison straightens in his chair. "It doesn't matter," he says. "The rest of the recommendation is plenty. Congratulations. You're headed to the moon."

**A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who sent well wishes and encouragement for chapter one! **

**Historically, the second chapter of ANY story is the least reviewed…probably the "been there done that" feeling for readers, so thanks for taking the time and effort to let me know your thoughts about this one. Your words are my best reward!**


	3. The Query

**Chapter Three: The Query**

**Disclaimer: All play and no work makes this author poor. Happy, but poor. **

Admiral Nishiki looks up from her computer screen and nods once at Spock. Her short gray hair and dark eyes give her a weighty air, even when she smiles as she does now.

"Impressive, Commander. I didn't think it was possible to make the _Kobayashi Maru_ any more stressful, but you have."

Sitting across from the Admiral in her office, Spock waits until she touches the screen to pause the simulation. In the sudden silence of the room he hesitates for a moment before speaking.

"I have been assisted in this upgrade by Cadet Farlijah-Endef, an Orion second-year. Her contributions to the programming have added a layer of complexity to the scenario."

"Indeed," Admiral Nishiki says, her eyes hooded, her expression difficult to read. "So you consider your collaboration successful?"

Of course he does; he just indicated as much. The Admiral's question is frankly baffling. With a ghost of a frown, Spock says, "I do."

"Then you are not opposed to collaborating with cadets. You don't consider such work a misuse of your time."

Again Spock is baffled. "As I said, Cadet Farlijah-Endef's contributions to the upgrade are both considerable and valued."

"Good, good," Admiral Nishiki says, looking away. Her face flushes slightly and she rubs her brow quickly with her right hand, signs of nervousness in some humans. Spock can recall nothing he has done to account for the Admiral's unease. Nevertheless, he feels his own anxiety rising in response—a learned reaction to growing up with a human parent, no doubt. Taking a deep breath, he wills his heartbeat back to normal.

Admiral Nishiki take a deep breath of her own. "I'm glad to hear it. A Starfleet instructor's position involves more than lecturing, you know. You have to be available to your students, to guide them inside the classroom and out. Meet with them not just on your time but on theirs as well."

"Agreed," Spock says. Last semester as part of his performance review Admiral Feldman noted that he needed to increase his office hours, something Spock had done immediately. Perhaps Admiral Nishiki is unaware? He starts to point it out but she hurries on.

"Commander, no one questions your abilities as a teacher. Your lessons are clear and concise, and your students give you high marks in this area."

Spock knows all this. He stifles his impatience at her stating the obvious.

"However," she says, making eye contact with him at last, "your students consistently rate your accessibility much lower."

"I have doubled my office hours—"

"I'm not talking about office hours," Admiral Nishiki says. "I mean _accessibility_—or maybe _approachability_ is more accurate. Cadets need to be able to come to you when they don't understand the lecture, or they need clarification. Your students say they are reluctant to do so."

To his horror, Spock feels himself bristle. "Cadets can and do ask for clarification."

If Admiral Nishiki hears the note of annoyance in his voice, she doesn't show it. Instead, she waves one hand dismissively and says, "Some do, yes. But many more say that they find you…intimidating. They feel you would not welcome their questions."

Untrue, of course. If he is honest, he finds pleasure in the intellectual give and take of questions asked and answered, of precepts challenged and defended. In his biolinguistics seminar last spring, Cadet Uhura often asked him for more detailed explanations during his lectures, and more than once she had expressed open skepticism about some point of contention. She was not reluctant. She was not intimidated.

With a start, Spock realizes that he can't remember any other students being quite so _free_.

"I—" he stammers, suddenly unsure what to say. Admiral Nishiki gives him an unblinking stare.

"I'm well aware that this may be a matter of cultural misunderstanding," she says. "Your Vulcan demeanor may be misinterpreted as aloofness when you don't intend such an impression. Human cadets, in particular, may be looking for some sort of reassurance that is unfamiliar to you."

There's no reason Admiral Nishiki would know that Spock is intimately familiar with human customs and quirks—he's tried to keep his personal life private and separate from his professional one, partly out of a sense of propriety, but also because his father's diplomatic work means that Sarek does, from time to time, make decisions that affect what happens in Starfleet. Still, Spock struggles not to be irritated at the Admiral's assumption that he needs instruction on human emotions. He steadies his breathing and says, "What do you suggest?"

Admiral Nishiki exhales loudly and sits back in her chair.

"I'm glad you've increased your office hours. That's a start. But it would also help if you had regular opportunities to assist students one-on-one. Dean Z'Aider tells me that the professor who ran the language lab has accepted a position at a civilian university and is leaving at the end of the summer. I want you to manage that lab. I know it's not your area of specialty, but as long as you are teaching some of the language courses, you will know the students who need that sort of extra help."

Spock blanks his expression and sits silently. Despite her conciliatory tone, the Admiral is not offering him a choice. Protesting that his schedule as an instructor in two departments—computer science and language—is already too full and that his own projects will suffer is out of the question, and patently false. With a minimum of reorganization, he can manage his time.

Whether he _wants_ to is another matter.

The idea of spending time in close proximity to students in the lab is unappealing at best. Glancing up at the Admiral, Spock sees firsthand what he already surmises: He has no choice.

"This needn't be an undue burden," the Admiral adds. "I don't know if you are aware, but the Dean has approved teachers' aides for all full time instructors next year. If you haven't already started interviewing candidates, you might want to include running the language lab as part of the duties."

Spock has, in fact, considered—and rejected—the idea of hiring a TA. Anything a TA could do—lecture, file, organize and post notes—he can do himself more efficiently. And with fewer distractions. When he had, briefly, imagined offering a TA position to Cadet Uhura, he had been…overwhelmed. Even working with Cadet Farlijah-Endef on the _Kobayashi Maru_ programming has been something of a trial, her ebullience tiring.

"That idea doesn't appeal to you?" the Admiral says, and Spock realizes that he's let his expression slip.

"I would prefer to work alone," he says. The Admiral's frown is immediate and unmistakable.

"See," she says, "that's what I'm talking about. You aren't making an effort to be approachable. A TA can be a liaison, if you will. Someone your students might be more comfortable approaching first—or in tandem with you. If you don't know any suitable candidates, I can have the Dean's secretary send you a list."

She reaches forward to her computer and Spock has an unaccountable moment of panic.

"I have someone in mind." His words tumble out so swiftly that Admiral Nishiki blinks in surprise. She pulls back her hand and nods.

"Very well," she says. "Though if you have not found someone before the beginning of the term, let me know."

Spock accepts this for what it is, a mild chastisement in the guise of a dismissal, and he says, "Understood," leaving her office as quickly as he can without drawing undue attention to himself.

He heads at once for the programming lab in the computer science building. In addition to a subspace communications console, there's an active direct link to the lunar relay station. Feeling a wash of relief that Cadet Farlijah-Edef is not there, Spock sits at the console and taps in the code that connects him to the moon.

Without preamble he asks the communications officer on the other end to patch him to Cadet Uhura's station. The line hums with gentle static for a moment—long enough for Spock to feel a twinge of regret for acting so hastily. Perhaps it would be wiser to accept a candidate from the Dean's list, someone he doesn't know, someone less…less…

A noise on the line—his heart hammers in his ears—but, no. More static.

He pictures Cadet Uhura the last time he spoke with her, her PADD clasped in one hand, her other hand raised in farewell after she asked him for a recommendation for an internship on the lunar station. He'd seen her once after that, across the campus cafeteria, though he hadn't spoken to her then. The memory of the young male cadet leaning into her shoulder as they made their way through the crowd gives him an unexplained spasm in his side and he presses his fingers there, his heart fluttering like a hummingbird.

A snap and the communications officer is back.

"I'm sorry, Commander, but Cadet Uhura is not at her station at the moment. Do you wish to leave a message?"

For a moment Spock is too flustered to think.

"Do you know when she will return?"

"The duty roster shows she is on leave through the weekend. She took a transport to Earth but is scheduled to return by 1800 hours Sunday."

He cuts the connection then, without comment, feeling relief and despair in equal measure. He had been ready to explain the teaching assistant's position and offer it to her if she were interested. Now he'll have to write to her—not his best mode of communication.

It can't be helped. If he doesn't ask her now, she may find another TA position on her own. Professor Artura had expressed an interest in someone with her qualifications. He needs to ask Cadet Uhura right away—before she finds another offer, before he changes his mind. Although another cadet might be less…distracting, working with an unknown assistant offers a different set of obstacles to overcome.

What was it his mother used to say? _Better the devil you know?_

Pulling out his PADD, he turns his attention to the query at hand—with more than a little trepidation.

X X

The bar is so noisy that LaChanda Anaga'Nwoke, Nyota's best friend from home, has to raise her voice to be heard.

"You're so lucky!" she says, flicking through the photographs on the comm in her hand. Occasionally she pauses and Nyota obliges with commentary.

It's Nyota's comm, and the pictures are mostly of the lunar station—computer work banks, narrow hallways, the commissary with displays of pre-packaged food, a hazy shot of the forlorn lunar landscape from the observation window. LaChanda enlarges a close up of a fellow male intern and holds the comm up at eye level.

"He's cute," she says, darting a glance at Nyota.

Nyota laughs. "He's sweet, too," she says.

"And?"

LaChanda pushes her shoulder into Nyota's, punctuating her question.

"And what?" Nyota counters. "We're too busy for anything but work."

"Well," LaChanda says, tabbing through more pictures, "you're still lucky. How many people get to work on the moon?"

It's true, and with a stab of guilt, Nyota knows she should be more grateful. Even in the age of space travel, most people are Earth-bound most of their lives. Indeed, the chance to get into space is one of the main reasons Nyota is at the Academy.

The internship isn't really space, after all. It's just routine work on the moon—not the kind of assignment Nyota is working toward. She's already seen her future—a starship still being built in the cornfields of Iowa.

A shrill chirp and LaChanda holds out the comm to Nyota. "I think someone's calling you."

"Just a mail notification," Nyota says, glancing down. She starts to put her comm away when she sees that the note has been flagged priority. "Oh!" she says, surprised. "It's from the Academy. I need to check this."

While LaChanda makes her way to the bar to refresh their drinks, Nyota opens the mail.

_To Cadet Nyota Uhura, from Commander Spock—_

Nyota is so startled that she stops reading and glances at the origination code. It's the Academy, alright, and it appears to be Commander Spock's personal address.

_I trust that your summer internship has been and continues to be instructive. As you undoubtedly know, teaching assistantships are being offered to qualified cadets for all full time instructors beginning in the fall semester. In addition to teaching two sections of advanced xenolinguistics, I have been tasked with operating the language practice lab. Although I can maintain a satisfactory schedule without auxiliary help, Admiral Nishiki has advised me that I am to select a suitable teaching assistant. Your skills make you an acceptable candidate. If this interests you, please contact me as soon as possible. _

"What's wrong?" LaChanda says, setting two tall glasses of amber beer on the small round table. "You look upset."

"I don't know," Nyota says, frowning. "It's this note from one of my instructors. At least I think it's from him. My roommate is working for him this summer. She might have hijacked his address so she can play a joke on me."

"Why, what's it say?"

"I think he's asking me to apply for a job."

"That's good, right?"

"I don't know," Nyota says, picking up her beer. In fact, she's pretty sure a job with Commander Spock would be a very bad idea. It's not just that he can be maddeningly obtuse at times, even deliberately hard to get along with. It's the way she has trouble getting a read on him, the sense she has that he is never fully _there_, always holding something in reserve.

That's not quite it, either. There's something else, some pent up energy that he hides, or doesn't acknowledge, like the lions she's seen in the nature preserve near her home, their casual, ambling gait lulling foolish antelopes into danger.

With a shrug and a laugh at her silly metaphor, Nyota rereads the note.

"Basically," she says over the noise of the music, "he says he's being forced to hire a TA and he might as well hire someone like me."

"He didn't say that!" LaChanda says. Nyota grins.

"Almost," she says. "See this? When someone says an Admiral _advises_ you to do something, that means you are being ordered. He's being forced to hire a teaching aide against his will."

"Then don't accept it," LaChanda says. "Since he doesn't really want you."

"Agreed," Nyota says, but the rest of the evening one part of her mind keeps returning to the note, even as she acts the part of a good friend, laughing and listening and sharing stories.

Hours later she tumbles into bed in her childhood bedroom, her sports trophies and academic awards on one wall, a shelf of souvenirs from a camping trip to Tanzania when she was 12 against the opposite wall. PADDs and tapes and even two actual paper books fill the bookshelf beside her bed. Stretched across the quilt her grandmother stitched for her years ago, Nyota pulls out her comm and rereads Commander Spock's note.

Once again she is struck by how stilted it sounds, how awkwardly phrased. Commander Spock's word choices are often unusual, his emphasis on a particular word or the way he elongates certain vowels or clips certain end consonants a dead give away that he is a non-native Standard speaker. Fluent but lacking the native's singular ease with the language.

His writing is another step back—sounding even more abrupt than he does when he speaks, more utilitarian, perhaps, or overly functional. Toneless. Yes, that's it. What she's looking for—and not finding—is the tone behind his words.

This time she reads between the lines, searching for the genuine meaning.

There's emotion there, though tucked out of sight. A genuine concern about her well-being. An irritation that the practice lab is being foisted on him. A rueful admission that he is being forced to hire an assistant. Praise—spare, to be sure—that she is an _acceptable _candidate.

And something else, too. What he doesn't say—the reason he is being forced to hire an assistant. The very real anxiety in his request that she contact him "as soon as possible." Why? The job doesn't begin for another month. Surely there's plenty of time to apply and be interviewed?

Except that this isn't an offer to apply. With a jolt, she realizes the job is hers if she wants it.

Is it always going to take this much work to figure out what he means? If this simple note is any indication, she should probably tell him right now that she's not interested.

The next morning when her mother gets up, Nyota is already in the kitchen, the tea on the hob, grilled bread and sliced fruit laid out.

"What's this?" her mother says, pleasantly surprised. Nyota feels a stab of guilt that she hasn't visited more, hasn't helped more around the house when she does. She's acted like a visitor instead of like family, and she's suddenly ashamed.

"I'm celebrating," she says, pouring a cup of tea for her mother. "I might have just made the best decision of my life. Or the worst. I'll tell you next semester after I start my new job."

**A/N: Thanks for going to the trouble of leaving a review. I appreciate your time and energy more than you can know. It's the best kind of pay!**


	4. Sticky Notes

**Chapter Four: Sticky Notes**

**Disclaimer: Borrowed with love, nothing sold.**

As soon as she reaches the top of the stairwell, Nyota hears the soft murmur of Commander Spock's voice. The door to his office is open, the light on, but the Commander's voice is the only one she hears. He's on a comm call, then, not meeting with a visitor. She slows and comes to a halt several feet from the door, unwilling to intrude on his conversation.

Almost at once she hears a slight scuff, as if he has shifted in his chair. Putting his comm away in a pocket? Waiting a few seconds more to make sure he's finished his call, she starts forward and hesitates briefly in the doorway.

Though he's facing away from her, from the cant of his head Nyota knows that he's aware of her, that he probably ended his call prematurely because she could overhear him. That idea flusters her and makes her feel like an unwanted intruder. Well, there's no help for it. She _is_ a few minutes early for her shift—but in the two weeks since she began working as his teacher's assistant, she's been early more often than not. He should expect her by now.

"Good morning, Commander," she says as she crosses the distance between them and comes even with his desk. "I'm sorry if I interrupted you."

His expression doesn't change but she senses a flicker in his mood, as if a dark cloud has just passed in front of the sun. Then he blinks and whatever she saw—or thought she saw—disappears.

"You did not," he says. "My cousin had concluded what he wanted to say."

"Your cousin!" Nyota's hand is over her mouth almost as soon as she utters it—embarrassed to sound so shocked. But she is. The Commander is so self-contained, so private that she's never before imagined him with a family. And with a cousin! Extended family—aunts, uncles, little Vulcan cousins. She lowers her hand and grins in spite of herself. "I'm sorry, Commander, it's just that—"

Meeting his eyes, she sees that dark cloud drift by again and her grin fades. "I'm sorry," she says again. "I hope it wasn't bad news."

"Uncertain," Commander Spock says. "My father took ill several days ago and may require treatment for a heart condition. I was unaware—until my cousin's call."

"Oh!"

Nyota is so busy unwinding all the layers of meaning in the Commander's words that she doesn't know what else to say. As hard as it is to picture the Commander with cousins, imagining his father is harder. Do Vulcan parents not tell their children when they are ill? Is speaking of medical conditions some sort of taboo? Yet the Commander's cousin knew—and felt Spock should know. What does that say about the lines of communication between the father and his son?

"I—I hope your father is going to be okay." Her words sound small for such a weighty concern. Darting a glance at the Commander, she sees him nod once and turn to his computer screen.

Nyota goes to the table the Commander has set up in the corner for her use, sets down her messenger bag, and pulls out a piece of heavy card stock. Holding it up, she says, "Do you mind if I post this in the workroom? It's an announcement about the Chorale concert tonight. I know it's late, but someone might see it and decide to come."

It's a colorful poster slightly larger than a normal flimplast, a throwback to a time when such announcements were typically printed on paper and displayed on bulletin boards, road sign poles, doors—anywhere students might see them. Now digital scrolling screens dot the campus and upcoming events are advertised through electronic mail and newsletters. All the more reason to put up something retro and surprising—the better to compete with all that data.

The Chorale poster has a photograph of the members superimposed on an expressionist design of musical notations. Nyota's already sent one to her mother as a souvenir—and a gentle chastisement for not coming to the concert, though she understands that a trip to San Francisco would be an extravagance. Still, she's being featured as a soloist and she's uncharacteristically nervous about it. Having her mother in the audience would have been calming—or at least, appreciated.

Commander Spock says, "You are a member of the Chorale Ensemble?"

"Vice-President," Nyota says. At once she's embarrassed, not of her hard-won accomplishment but for offering an unasked for detail about herself. It's something she does easily with friends and even new acquaintances. It is not the kind of familiarity the Commander seems to want and Nyota blinks and looks away.

"Please," she hears him say, and when she looks up, his hand is extended. With a start, she steps to his desk and gives him the poster.

For almost a minute he examines it so intently that she begins to feel uncomfortable, certain that he will tell her that posting it in the workroom is against some rule or regulation.

Then suddenly without looking at her he gives it back and says, "You may post it."

"Thank you," Nyota says, and then on an impulse, she says, "You should come. I mean, if you like music. We perform all sorts, not just Terran music."

She stumbles to a stop as the Commander turns slightly in his chair and eyes her.

"I appreciate many types of music," he says. It's such a rare offering—telling her something personal about himself—that she straightens and smiles.

"I wasn't sure if Vulcans sang," she says. "I'd love to hear some Vulcan music."

"Most sentient species have an equivalent vocalization of singing," Commander Spock says matter-of-factly, and Nyota hides a smile at his deft sidestep. She'll have to work harder to get him to reveal any facts about himself.

"If you have some suggestions," she says, slipping into the chair beside his desk—his eyebrows lifting slightly as she does—"I'd love to bring those to the ensemble. We are always looking for representative selections for our concerts."

She's watching him so closely that she sees some sort of calculation going on in his expression—some decision he's coming to. Then drawing a breath, he says, "I am not as familiar with Vulcan vocal music as I am with the instrumental variety. The Vulcan lyre—the _ka'athyra_—is the instrument I know best."

For an awkward moment Nyota remembers her first day of working for the Commander when he opened his mail and found a Vulcan lyre inside. When she'd asked to hold it he pulled away abruptly, warning her that the human oils in her fingertips could damage the wood. For several days she smarted as if someone had struck her, until at last she confided to Gaila how alien, how _unworthy_, the Commander's words made her feel.

"Now you know," Gaila said, her chin tucked down to her collarbone. "Humans say thoughtless things like that to me all the time—to all of us who are off-worlders. Besides, how do you know he wasn't just telling you the truth—that Vulcan wood can't withstand human touch? Maybe you're blowing this all out of proportion."

Nyota's face had flushed, first that anyone would say something deliberately hurtful to Gaila, but also at the belated realization that she had been oblivious to such human slights, perhaps even uttering them herself with a thoughtlessness that shames her now.

If the Commander feels any uneasiness at the allusion to that disastrous first day of work, he doesn't show it.

"You play?" Nyota asks.

"I do. But my father is the more accomplished musician."

The mention of his father brings back the dark tone in his voice, in his eyes. Without thinking, Nyota lifts her hand to place it on his forearm, a note of sympathy—but Commander Spock's expression shifts suddenly and she lets her palm land on the desk instead. What had she seen in his face? Not panic, but something close to it. With a jerk, she hops to her feet.

"I'll go put this up now," she says as she backs out of the office. When she returns he is busy with something on his computer and he doesn't acknowledge her. Without comment, she goes to her own computer and begins the task of sorting and filing his mail.

By noon her stomach is rumbling so loudly that she's sure the Commander can hear it.

"Do you want me to bring you anything?" she asks, knowing he will turn her down as he always does.

She grabs a salad in the cafeteria and eats in a corner alone—even ducking once when she sees Gaila come in, hoping her roommate will find someone else for company. Otherwise Nyota will get caught up in whatever drama Gaila wants to discuss today—and end up being late getting back to the language lab which she is scheduled to open and run all afternoon.

As she always does she sprints up the three flights of stairs to the language offices, her breathing only becoming labored on the last turn. As she pauses to catch her breath on the landing, she sees that the lab lights are off, a small square of yellow paper on the glass inset of the door. As she gets closer she sees that it is a sticky note—a throwback to the days when paper was commonly used to send messages. At first glance she thinks it is an illustration for something, but on closer examination she recognizes the Commander's handwriting, small and neat but also hinting at the flourishes characteristic of Vulcan script. For a moment she marvels at the beauty of the words without trying to comprehend their meaning.

_The language lab is closed for the rest of the afternoon. Practice sessions will be rescheduled at a later time._

Confusion, dismay, relief—she feels all three as she rereads the note. Why hadn't the Commander told her he was going to cancel the lab sessions? Has an emergency come up, perhaps worse news about his father? She hurries down the hall to his office. The door is open and the lights and his computer are still on, but the Commander is nowhere in sight. He's not leaving nor apparently planning to.

Is he canceling the lab and sending her home because he's upset with the personal tone their conversation had taken? The look he had given her when her hand had crept toward his arm—shock or dismay or anxiety? Her cheeks grow hot at the memory.

She sees a second sticky note, this one on her desk. Tugging at the weak adhesive, she pulls it up and cradles it in her palm.

_The afternoon is yours to prepare for the concert. _

A gift, then, not to have to run the lab this afternoon. She gives an audible sigh of relief. This gives her time to settle herself before the concert—even time to go for a run by the waterfront to burn off some of her nervous energy.

Packing her bag, she sees the stack of unused sticky notes on the Commander's desk, and for the second time that day, she gives in to impulse, plucks one off, and picks up a pen.

_I hope you make it to the concert._

Nothing inappropriate or even particularly intimate about that. Part of her duties as the vice-president, in fact, to drum up more of an audience. She's not asking for a commitment—just making a suggestion.

Yet for the rest of the afternoon her mind is divided in two—part of her hoping Commander Spock reads more into her sticky note and part of her horrified that he might.

Even as she's warming up in the wings and getting ready to process on stage and mount the risers, she finds herself brushing back the heavy velvet curtain to scan the crowd. Until the house lights go down she's still looking as people take their seats, but she sees no one who could be mistaken for a Vulcan, no one at all.

Then with a rueful laugh at herself, she takes her place and walks onto the stage to scattered applause.

X X

"You look tired," Amanda says. Spock's first impulse is to deny it—as he often denies his mother's assumptions about him. It's an old habit, and at some level, immature on his part and unworthy of his mother's genuine concern. Still, old habits die hard, and Spock frowns slightly and says, "I am fine, Mother."

He's in the basement of the language building in the small, cramped room that houses an auxiliary subspace transmitter. He could have waited until the evening to call home on his portable unit in his apartment, but his mother will be awake now.

"Did Chris tell you what the healers said?" Amanda asks, and for the first time Spock realizes that she is the one who looks tired, not a surprise if Sarek is having symptoms of heart failure.

"Just that medication has been prescribed," Spock says. Amanda nods and goes on.

"They want to try that first, of course. If it doesn't correct the arrhythmia, your father may be facing surgery."

"He has multiple options, then," Spock says. Belatedly he realizes that he should have said nothing. His mother visibly bristles.

"Well, yes," she says. "But that doesn't make it less worrying! I wish he didn't have to deal with this at all."

This time Spock says nothing but waits for his mother's irritation with him to pass. In a moment she sighs and says, "He's out in the garden. You should speak to him."

Her look is so hopeful that Spock feels a twinge of regret at disappointing her.

"Later," he says, "when I am able to speak at length. I am at work and will be leaving shortly."

That's not the reason he doesn't want to speak to his father, and they both know it. Whenever he and Sarek do speak, Starfleet—and Spock's choice over the Vulcan Science Academy—becomes a point of contention. Not often in words, but in the undertone of disapproval Spock senses from his father.

"Then call when you get home," his mother says.

They both know he won't, but Spock feels the need to give a different reason why.

"I may be busy with a social engagement after I leave work this evening."

Amanda's face lights up. "A social engagement! Tell me about it!"

"A campus concert," he says, feeling her mood dim slightly. From time to time she occasionally chides him about not making time for friends or colleagues outside of work—though Spock goes to lengths to reassure her that he is neither lonely nor discontent. "My new teaching assistant is a member of the Chorale and she suggested that I attend."

"You have a new assistant?" Amanda's voice is quizzical, her eyebrows raised—she's on what she herself would call "a fishing trip," trying to ferret out information.

"Cadet Ellison graduated two semesters ago and has accepted a post on a starship. Cadet Uhura has taken his place."

Spock and Amanda have spoken more than once about the difficulty he's had with TA's. Until Cadet Ellison, no one had lasted an entire semester as his assistant. After Cadet Ellison graduated, Spock had been reluctant to hire another TA—until, of course, Admiral Nishiki insisted.

He isn't certain that Cadet Uhura will last the semester either. Although she was an exemplary student, working with her in close quarters has been unsettling somehow, though he is at a loss to understand why.

Amanda peers at him across subspace on the screen, a slight frown on her face. Surprising himself, Spock blurts out, "Perhaps my attendance at the concert would be…inappropriate, or confusing. I am, after all, Cadet Uhura's supervisor."

At that Amanda's expression changes—her mouth quirking up and her eyes flashing.

"Spock, it's just a concert! Surely you have the right to attend it, regardless of who is performing."

"But—" Once more Spock astonishes himself by speaking too quickly. Old habits again. His mother always could winkle out a confession from him—a glance, a tap of her foot, one hand on her hip, and he offered up any detail she asked of him—not that he was deceptive by nature but because she was such an overwhelming presence in his life that he needed to keep her at arm's length, her emotions draining him at times.

"But what? It is frowned on at Starfleet? That doesn't seem very practical to me."

"Starfleet has no proscriptions against faculty attending public functions where students are performing," Spock says. "Our attendance is encouraged as a show of support."

"Then what's the problem? Don't you want to go?"

"I believe that Cadet Uhura expects me to attend. Although I had not planned on going, I am reluctant to give offense with my absence. She is, after all, an officer in the ensemble."

The wrinkles at the corner of his mother's eyes deepen.

"You find this amusing," he says, struggling to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

"Not at all!" his mother says, and he looks at her closely. "I'm glad you are getting out and doing something instead of working all the time. I'm just…surprised…that's all, that you are dithering over whether or not to go. You're usually so decisive about things."

Now Spock doesn't bother to hide his annoyance. "I do not dither. If I hesitate now, it is because I am unsure about Cadet Uhura's meaning in the note she left."

"She left you a note?"

"I canceled her afternoon duties so that she might prepare for the concert tonight. She left a note expressing her hope that I would attend."

"And you're worried that her feelings will be hurt if you don't go?"

But that's not it at all, Spock realizes. Cadet Uhura is, for a human, unusually level-headed and rational. She would not have _hurt feelings _over something so trivial.

No, his hesitation is less about what going means to _her_ and more about what it means to _him_.

His heart speeds up and to hide his discomfort he says, "If I continue this conversation much longer, Mother, the decision will be moot. The concert begins shortly."

With an audible sigh, Amanda says, "Very well. But do call your father when you can. He needs to hear from you."

The concert hall is in the center of the campus but the language building is close to the west gate several minutes away, even at a fast clip. By the time he arrives, the house lights are down and the ushers—two students handing out old-fashioned programs—have taken seats in the back of the auditorium.

Only half of the seats are occupied—a detail that Spock notes with more than passing concern. No wonder Cadet Uhura was still putting up concert notices this afternoon. After so much preparation, the lack of a sufficient audience might negatively affect the Chorale's performance.

As he slips into an empty seat on the aisle, Spock waves back one of the ushers who half-rises, ready to hand him a program. The odds are the program notes will add nothing to the music that he doesn't already know—and if the Chorale does sing something unfamiliar, he can look up any extra information himself.

The first two pieces are, indeed, familiar to him—Terran tone poems by modern composers, dichromatic syncopated works that highlight the Chorale's technical skills. An Orion mourning song follows, the high notes haunting and evocative. Then Cadet Uhura steps down from the risers and takes her place in front of the group, the lights on the stage dimming while a spotlight illuminates her like a single candle.

Her voice starts out low and rises slowly, _a capella_, and as it does, Spock gives an involuntary shiver. The song is unfamiliar, but from the lyrics he deduces that it is a Terran lullaby. Soon enough he stops listening to the words and hears only the notes, clear and crystalline and hanging suspended in the air above his head, as if for him alone.

A dangerous illusion—and a foolish decision to come. When the crowd begins to applaud at the end of the song, he feel released, like someone suddenly freed from a trap. He carefully makes his way out of the auditorium and into the chilly night air of San Francisco, troubled by the hitch in his side he can't explain, certain only that he has had a narrow escape.

**A/N: This chapter makes a glancing reference to Chapter One of "What We Think We Know" and Nyota's first day as Spock's TA. I hope that wasn't confusing!**

**Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing. Your reviews are what keep authors going! **


	5. Tete-a-Tea

**Chapter Five: Tete-a-tea**

**Disclaimer: No profit from this labor of love.**

Nyota sets a small bag on Commander Spock's desk.

"I brought you a gift," she says. "Open it."

For a fraction of a second she thinks he will refuse and she nods encouragement, adding, "I got a care package from my mother this morning. She always sends me more than I can use. I still have the _ugali _she sent me last time, so here. Try it. I think you'll like it."

She's not making idle speculation. In the past month she and the Commander have fallen into the habit of eating a mid-day meal together several times a week when their schedules allow—nothing fancier than brown bagging it in the language building workroom, but it's given her some insight into what he eats.

Not much, if lunch is typical; usually fruits or vegetables or simple grains. _Ugali_ is the ubiquitous starch eaten through much of Africa, cooked like polenta or grits and fashioned into an accompaniment for stews and meat dishes. Nyota isn't completely sure Vulcans can digest it, though she's seen him eat rice and corn, which are similar in biocomplexity.

The Commander 's expression is unreadable and he makes no move to open the bag. Is giving a gift to a Vulcan a cultural _faux pas_?

"You seem…unsure, or something," Nyota says, hoping he will explain his hesitation. He blinks, leans forward slightly, and peers inside the bag. When he looks up, Nyota says, "I'll write out the cooking directions for you. That is, if you want to try it."

"Thank you," Spock says simply, and Nyota hazards a small smile. As she starts toward her work station in the corner, she hears him say, "Care packages from mothers must be a constant in the universe."

At that Nyota laughs—and she's about to ask him what Vulcan mothers send their distant sons when his computer beeps, a notice that he has an audio message in the mail queue.

Stepping to the door, she says, "I'll just go get some tea," hoping he understands that she is granting him his privacy.

Professor Artura's TA, Neil, is the only other person in the workroom, and he jumps slightly when Nyota comes in. Short, freckled, shy, Neil has a crush on Nyota—or she assumes he does. Whenever she tries to talk to him he flushes hard, his face turning as red as his hair.

"Hey," she says, and sure enough, he blushes and knocks over the cup at his elbow.

"Oops!" Nyota says handing him a dish towel from the counter to clean up the mess. "Is that tea? I'll make you another cup. I was going to make some for myself."

"Uh, you can't," Neil says, pointing to the empty clear glass container on the sink counter. "I used the last tea bag."

"Commander Spock has some," Nyota says, opening the cabinet door over the sink. To her astonishment, Neil hops up and leaves without a word.

She's so flabbergasted that her hand is around Commander Spock's tea canister before she feels the slick paper stuck to the side. It's an address label, a rectangle of sticky-backed paper used to route physical documents between Academy departments. The canister is a piece of Vulcan hand-thrown pottery, small and rough to her fingers, the size and heft of a large grapefruit. Lifting it up, she reads Commander Spock's calligraphic-like handwriting, neat and small.

_Do not remove._

Well! That's new! She flushes as hard as Neil had, her cheeks burning. Is this note directed at her? She's brewed herself multiple cups of Vulcan tea—even commenting on its pleasant smoky quality to the Commander. If he hadn't wanted her to help herself to it, he should have said something.

Perhaps his Vulcan tea is rare and hard to get, part of his occasional care packages from home, and he's concerned with how rapidly it's disappearing now that she's drinking it, too. But if that were the case, he could have told her not to drink it. She circles around this conundrum again, still baffled.

No use getting her feelings hurt. It's his tea; he can do whatever he wants to with it. As she starts to replace the canister in the cabinet, she looks at the label again.

_Do not remove._

Something about the label is wrong—suggesting a selfishness or possessiveness she hasn't sensed before in the Commander. Surely he doesn't mean what the label implies.

Looking around the workroom, she sees ink styluses in a cup on a table. With a quick glance to make sure no one is coming, she grabs one, angling the tea canister in her left hand while she writes on the label with her right.

_Please be more precise. To what does this refer?_

Before she shuts the door of the cabinet, she turns the canister to make sure the label is face out.

Stepping out into the hall a few minutes later, she hears silence. Commander Spock's finished listening to his audio message then. As she walks back to the office she struggles to contain a grin. It fades as soon she sees him.

He's clearly nonplussed about something. So much for that vaunted Vulcan stoicism. In the short time she's worked in close quarters with him she's seen him bemused, annoyed, anxious, pleased—not in such an obvious way that a casual observer would note, but she's not a casual observer.

An uncomfortable admission, but there it is.

Before she can decide how to ask him about the message, he excuses himself and says he might not return before her shift ends in the afternoon.

He leaves in such a hurry that his computer screen is up, an email address visible. She's careful not to look too closely but she can't help but notice that it's from Vulcan. Bad news about his father? The Commander hasn't mentioned his father since telling her that he was being treated for a heart condition.

Feeling like an interloper, she finishes up her work and runs the lab for two hours after lunch. She even waits around the office an extra fifteen minutes but Commander Spock doesn't return.

The next morning she beats him to work. Nyota can count on one hand the number of times she's done so. Almost always when she mounts the last stair of her three story climb, she looks down the hall and spies the light on in his office. She's halfway convinced that he works through the night and is still there in the morning, though she can't tell from his appearance—he's clean-shaven and unrumpled no matter when she sees him.

Today, however, when she steps on the top landing she notices that his office is dark. Although she has a key, she detours to the workroom instead to stow her lunch in the stasis unit and make herself a cup of tea.

With a sigh, she spots the empty glass container on the counter. She'll have to remember to cadge some tea bags from the cafeteria at lunch to restock it. For now, though—

Tugging open the cabinet door, she sees Commander Spock's tea canister, a new label replacing the old one.

_Do not remove this canister or its contents from this room._

For a split second Nyota doesn't breathe, and then she leans forward and bursts out laughing. More precise, yet not answering the real question about whether or not he minds sharing his tea. The Commander really needs to work on his communication skills.

X X

Spock finds the noise almost intolerable. The squeak of Cadet Uhura's chair when she leans back, the susurration of her hair sliding over her shoulder when she leans forward, the sudden intake of breath when she reads something amusing or surprising or upsetting. These sounds unmoor him, as if she is a magnet for his attention, regardless of what she is doing.

The scents are almost as disturbing—soap with an undertone of citrus, the crisp smell of her clean linen uniform, a hint of maple or oranges or chocolate on her thumb, an echo of her breakfast croissant.

Spock keeps his chair angled away from hers, yet his peripheral vision betrays him, seeking out the line of her jaw, the curve of her knee.

The last day he worked completely undisturbed was 57 days ago, the day before she became his teaching aide. His sleep has been disturbed as well, the sounds and smells and vision of Cadet Uhura troubling him when he closes his eyes, when he tries to meditate.

He blames himself for his lack of focus, his human biology tripping him up with an unwanted undercurrent of sexual arousal. But he blames T'Pring, too—the touch of her mind so light, her presence so distant, that he has nothing to steady him when he needs it most.

They'd parted in anger when he left for the Academy—T'Pring staying on Vulcan to study architecture, her disapproval of his choice of Starfleet rivaling his father's in intensity. Since then they've hardly spoken; he's seen her even less, and only when he's made infrequent trips home.

Recently he's contacted her on subspace—or tried to—only to be told by her housekeeper that she is unavailable. His letters have gone unanswered.

When he mentioned her silence to his mother, she was shocked—not just that T'Pring hasn't returned his messages, but that his sense of her through their bond is so tenuous.

"Do you want your father to contact the K'Loh'r T'Mirs?" his mother asked. To Spock's surprise, he didn't reject that idea out of hand.

"Perhaps," he said slowly, "after I have attempted to contact T'Pring again. She may be off-planet or without access to communication devices."

His mother didn't try to hide her skepticism, one eyebrow hiked up, her lips pressed into a grimace.

But that had been ten days ago, and his attempts to contact T'Pring since have been equally fruitless.

Meanwhile his attempt to find some equilibrium within himself has been just as wasted. He's increased the rigor of his regular _suus mahna_ workouts; lengthened his work hours; deepened his meditative trances. Still he's uncharacteristically irritated by small things—a student asking to turn in a late assignment, an unproductive department meeting. His tea canister going missing for a day earlier in the week—until he spotted it on Professor Artura's desk.

"I hope you don't mind," Professor Artura said, his blue antennae bobbing in apology—or in shame at being caught, "but today is an Andorian remembrance day for absent friends, and I need something from Vulcan to honor a friend who lives there. I intend to return this later, after I finish my ritual supplications."

An implausible story, but not impossible. Spock knows that the professor has not lived on Andoria since his wife and daughter were murdered in a blood feud. His travels could have taken him to Vulcan before he settled on Earth.

True to his word, Professor Artura did return the canister—but not that day or the next. Placing a _do not remove_ label on the canister seemed like a reasonable precaution against further poaching.

Of course, Cadet Uhura pointed out the need for specification—and he changed the label to make clear that the canister and its contents were for the workroom and not for Professor Artura's ceremonial use.

For the past 56 days—since Cadet Uhura has started working for him—Spock has worked at his office every weekend, grateful for the relative quiet and the lack of distractions. This Saturday he's so immersed in reviewing the results of a joint research project between the computer science and biochemistry labs that when he sits back in his chair at last, he realizes with a start that hours have passed, that he is both famished and thirsty. Tea, then, and another hour or so of writing up his comments before heading to his apartment for a meal.

As soon as he opens the cabinet in the workroom he sees that Cadet Uhura has edited his new label on the canister.

_Do not remove this canister or its contents from this room. __**Unless you replace the contents with tea of superior quality, such as Kenyan single origin whole-leaf Pekoe.**_

For a moment he stares at it, uncomprehending. And then he understands. She thought the label was for her, a caution against using his tea.

He's horrified, and embarrassed to be horrified, in equal measure. This is the danger of working so closely with her—this sort of wrong-footing each other without meaning to.

Suddenly the office is too close, the language building too confining. Even as he gathers his things and locks his office, he knows he's not thinking clearly, that this little misunderstanding over the tea is just that, a misunderstanding and nothing more.

Yet a misunderstanding that implies something unpleasant about his character—an unwillingness to share, a materialistic attitude that is anathema to Vulcan ideals.

That Cadet Uhura sees him this way makes him feel almost physically unwell.

His apartment is just outside the east gate of the Academy grounds, a transport station across the street. The duty officer on charge at the gate nods as he exits but Spock is too busy noticing the arriving hoverbus. Sprinting across the street and stepping into the waiting queue of passengers, he checks to make sure that the hoverbus is heading to Sausalito, across the Bay. It is.

As he slides into the first empty seat, Spock takes a deep breath, frankly shocked to find himself there. Closing his eyes, he considers the reason he's acting impulsively. He's almost lightheaded, obviously the result of going without food or drink all day.

There's a teashop in Sausalito he's visited before, one that imports multiple varieties of Terran and off-world teas. He can break his fast there and buy some loose Vulcan tea to replenish his supply.

And although he's never thought to ask before, perhaps buy some Kenyan single origin whole-leaf Pekoe.

**A/N: Professor Artura and Spock have more than their fair share of misunderstandings…and this chapter alludes to the good professor's backstory that's told in more detail elsewhere. His time on Vulcan is mentioned in Chapter Six of "People Will Say."**

**Thanks to everyone who takes the time and effort to leave a review. Your notes keep me going.**


	6. Erasures

**Chapter Six: Erasures**

**Disclaimer: Making no money here. **

As Nyota snaps off the lights and locks Commander Spock's office at the end of her shift, she's already texting Gaila.

_Where r u? Need u. Will b there n 10. Stay._

Sighing, she slips her comm in her pocket and makes her way down the three flights of stairs to exit the language building, watching all the while for Commander Spock.

For three days in a row she's come to work but he hasn't. Or rather, he comes when she's not here, in the middle of the night, leaving a work PADD on her desk with a list of duties.

Such as this one from today:

_Open lab. Take packages to post office. Sort mail and forward personal notices._

The list is a statement of the obvious, things she does everyday. He hardly needs to remind her.

"I am aware that most humans are not gifted with eidetic memory," he told her once, back before their relationship had become so…_fraught_. Back when such a comment would have made her laugh, or at least smile.

"And Vulcans don't forget anything?" she had teased. His expression did not change.

"We do not," he said, and she pointed to the photo cube on the shelf in his office.

"Why do you need this? If you recall everything with perfect clarity?"

Most of the images on the photocube were of Vulcan—a sand-colored home, a rock-lined garden—but one was of a striking dark-eyed woman the Commander said was a _friend_—said with a tone of voice that implied an unspoken intimacy. Ever since, Nyota has been curious. Or something.

Now that easy teasing seems unimaginable, their camaraderie built of casual lunches and innumerable conversations over cups of tea wiped away by the events of the last few weeks.

It all started the day she fell—she's sure of that now, if she wasn't before. Weakened by a sprain during a rougher than usual game of parrises squares, Nyota's ankle had given way suddenly when she stood up in the office one day, the Commander's quick reflexes saving her from hitting the ground.

His arms had circled her for only a moment—but it was long enough for her catch a glimpse of his unshuttered thoughts, as if the two of them had—in those few seconds—shared a mind.

Which, she realized, they had.

"Oh, yeah," Gaila said nonchalantly when Nyota broached the subject later, "a mind share, or _meld_, I think they call it. That's why Vulcans are so careful not to touch anyone. Imagine what that must be like in bed when they do touch—"

"Gaila!"

"Well, maybe not," Gaila grinned. "I'd hate to wander around in a Vulcan's mind—all those boring mathematical equations—"

Nyota gave a reluctant snort and Gaila darted a glance in her direction. _If only she knew—_

Nyota's uneasiness came not from violating some Vulcan taboo or even from intruding in the Commander's privacy but from what she had seen there in his mind: Images of herself—not just as she was at that moment, slumped against his chest, his right arm keeping her from tumbling to the floor—but also as she has been since she's known him…sitting across from him in his classroom, leaning over a computer keyboard in the lab, reclining against one of the rickety chairs in the breakroom, lifting her hand and waving as she picked her way across the sunlit commons.

A collage of pictures of herself, or a kaleidoscope of bits and pieces as he sees her—the delicate bones of her wrist, the curve of her ear, the tilt of her chin. All stitched together like a quilt, and overlaid with a jumble of emotional echoes—pride and pleasure and amusement, and worrisome feelings, too, like discomfort and loneliness and longing.

When he'd flown to New York that same afternoon to visit friends from Vulcan—perhaps the _friend _on the photocube—Nyota had half-convinced herself she'd imagined the entire thing—or at least was projecting her emotions, wrongly assigning her uneasy feelings to him. When he'd returned the next day—tight-lipped about his journey but nevertheless clearly disturbed—she'd tried to winkle out the cause before deciding it was none of her business.

Which of course it wasn't, except that whatever had happened in New York had shifted something in their communication, adding a restraint that is new.

He's avoiding her—coming into his office at night to leave her a list and then staying away during the day while she opens the lab and sorts his mail.

She's both relieved and dismayed that he's doing so. Relieved because the past few weeks have left her confused and uneasy—and if truth be told—anxious that she will slip up and reveal the all-too-human emotional undercurrent she feels when she's with him.

But she's also dismayed because she's never been one to dodge an uncomfortable situation, never one to duck away instead of facing something headlong. When she accepted this teaching assistantship she knew it would be a challenge—the Commander had a reputation for being a stickler, a perfectionist, an austere and demanding supervisor. Nyota didn't care. She _knew_ him already, had weathered two courses under him successfully. If he was a formidable presence in the classroom, he was also surprisingly engaging. She expected him to be the same as her supervisor. And he had been, for a time.

For a time they had continued their friendly sparring over shared lunches, over tea—their conversations ranging far and wide, her conviction growing that no one was as interesting to talk to as the Commander.

And for his part, he seemed to enjoy her company.

Until the fall. That literal fall had set a metaphorical one in motion, and whatever friendly relationship they had built started crumbling the day she landed in his arms.

Not that every time they are together they are at odds. When Commander Spock learned he was the winner of this year's Brodhead Prize for teaching, Nyota happily convinced him to accept it. When he gave a frankly emotional eulogy at the memorial for the _USS Camden_ dead, she alone understood what it cost him to publicly acknowledge his private grief.

But lately he's pulled away, leaving cryptic emails and work PADDs to communicate with her. She's done something to offend him, or to make him regret hiring her, but she can't sort out what. With a sigh she makes her way back to the dorm, her resolve to do something wavering as soon as she opens the door and hears Gaila's trilling laugh.

"Gotta go," Gaila says into her comm, and before Nyota can stop her, she snaps it shut and stands up to give a comical salute. "Reporting for duty, as ordered," she says, her red curls bobbing. "So, what's this all about?"

"I'm sorry," Nyota says, shifting her bag from her shoulder and sitting on her bed. "It's nothing."

Gaila cocks her head to the side. "It's _something_," she says, "or you wouldn't have told me to _stay_."

Nyota's face flushes. "Yeah, I'm sorry about that. That was out of line."

"Are you going to tell me what's going on? Because I turned down twelve hot dates just to be here with you now."

Only an Orion could make such a joke with impunity. Despite herself, Nyota laughs.

"Okay, okay," she says, holding up one hand. "I'm having trouble understanding something Commander Spock wrote."

Gaila cocks her head in the other direction. "And?"

"And," Nyota continues slowly, "I thought that since you work with him doing programming, you might help me figure it out."

Lifting one eyebrow, Gaila slumps onto her bed and leans against the headboard. "You're the communications expert, Ny. I'm just a coder."

Swallowing, Nyota says, "But I'm missing something, and I don't know what. He hasn't been to work for three days—"

"He's sick."

"I don't think so. But I don't know. He comes in when I'm not there and leaves me…this."

She pulls out the work PADD from that day and hands it to Gaila, who flips it on. "So? It's a list. What about it?" Gaila asks.

"It's just that it's a _stupid_ list," Nyota says. "I don't need it, and I don't know why the Commander would leave it for me."

Gaila shrugs. "Why don't you ask him?"

All at once Nyota feels the wind go out of her sails. Of course she should just ask him…but when she tries to imagine doing so, she falters. If he's pulling away already, a direct question might close communication down altogether.

"I, well, yes…I should—" she stumbles. From the corner of her eye she sees Gaila break into a wide grin.

"Or," Gaila says, holding up one finger, "I could use a time-stamp wyrm to uncover any edits to the list. Considering it's Commander Spock we're talking about, there probably aren't any. I bet he never changes anything once he writes it down. But if he has, we can see what he wrote originally. That might give you some idea into what's going on."

Gaila's tone is so excited, so conspiratorial, that Nyota eyes her intently. What her roommate is proposing is, if not outright unethical, at least questionably so. The wyrm will show all the versions of his note in reverse chronological order, even though Commander Spock only intended her to see the last one. She opens her mouth to tell her _no_ when Gaila adds, "What's the use of having a supercoder roommie if you never take advantage of what I can do? You said you want to know what the Commander means, right? Then you need to see everything he wrote. After all, everything he wrote was _for you_, right? You aren't reading something he didn't intend for you to see—at least at one time."

Nyota still isn't convinced. Gaila goes on. "Here's the thing. I know how Commander Spock values economy in words. What he's probably done is try to logically whittle all the extraneous stuff out of this note—and he's just overshot the mark. There's nothing wrong with going back and recovering what he meant to say."

In one corner of her mind Nyota is sure this is wrong—but if it helps her understand why the Commander is so skittish around her, she's willing to silence the corner of her mind that is frantically waving a red flag—

"Okay," Nyota says, "but there's one catch. You can't tell anyone what we find out. Not anyone!"

"I'll do better than that," Gaila says, her fingers flying over the screen of the PADD. "I'll set the wyrm in motion and then I'm going out. By the time you start to get a report on any edits, I'll be at Moe's on the dance floor with a beer in one hand and one of the twelve cadets I turned down in the other. I won't see a thing!"

_It's not too late to stop her,_ Nyota thinks, but even as she does, she knows she won't. Gratefully she takes the PADD from Gaila and settles back as her roommie scurries around getting dressed. Sure enough, by the time she's saying her goodbyes, the PADD is beeping and Nyota opens the screen to the note Commander Spock left today.

_Open lab. Take packages to post office. Sort mail and forward personal notices._

It's time-stamped 0121, and for a moment, Nyota thinks that Gaila may have been right about the Commander not needing to edit his work. This appears to be the only version—except that as she watches, a second version queues up behind it with a time-stamp twenty minutes earlier. She taps it open.

_Two students specifically asked that you be available to assist in the lab this afternoon. Both found the tutorial you wrote on Triskalien fricatives useful. In addition, I will be off campus when the post office is open, so your taking the packages there will be helpful. The packages include redundant hard copies of reports already sent via email so you do not need to hurry. Running this errand during your lunch break would suffice, especially since the cafeteria's proximity to the post office would make a single trip feasible. Finally, the odds are 89% that I will not be in the office today. Please forward any personal mail or notices to my comm queue. Everything else you can attend to with your usual efficiency._

Gradually as she reads, Nyota becomes aware that her mouth is open. He deleted this version? Why? She blinks and shakes her head. Compared to the bare bones note she did receive, this one is incredibly detailed—too detailed, in fact. And suddenly she knows why Commander Spock deleted it. A human wouldn't mind so much direction, but a Vulcan might find it…insulting—not that they would admit to it. He's assuming she shares his sensibility and he didn't want to offend her.

The PADD beeps a notice that yet another, earlier, version is in line. She tabs it open.

_Cadet Uhura, I have been remiss in not speaking to you earlier _

That's it? An incomplete sentence? And not even connected to the list of things he wanted her to do that day. Nyota rubs the crease on her forehead.

_I have been remiss_.

An apology? For what?

_I have been remiss in not speaking to you earlier_

He's apologizing for not speaking about something to her. With a leap of insight, she knows he is referring to her fall in his office. Neither has said a word about it, yet apparently both have thought about it since.

"Then we'll have to talk about it," she says aloud, partly to comfort herself with the sense that she is finally moving forward, and partly to cover the hammering of her heart. In her hand, the PADD beeps softly once more.

Yet another version, his first attempt. She opens it up.

_Nyota,_

That's it. Her name and nothing else. No, not nothing else. A comma afterward, as if her name is the salutation of an unwritten letter.

He's only called her by her name once—a private moment with nothing untoward about it—coupled, as it was, with a simple thank you—but sometimes in her dreams she hears him say it again, the slight breathiness of the middle vowel the only hint that Vulcan is his first language.

She looks at her name on the PADD.

_Nyota,_

He was going to say something about what happened that day in his office when her ankle gave way and she fell into his arms, into his mind, but his courage or his logic faltered and he deleted the evidence of his attempt. Did not say what she suspects—that the wordless yearning she thought was hers alone is not only understood but shared—

The unfinished letter is maddening, calling for a patience she doesn't feel. If she asks him about it—

She can't, of course. Doing so would mean admitting that she's seen his edited versions. Would humiliate him, to know that the track of his thoughts are on display like this.

With a vicious swipe, she toggles off the PADD, ashamed of seeing what she should not have seen, and grateful, too, that she has.

X X

Earth's moon is full tonight, something Spock notes without conscious effort, the same way he is aware that the ambient air temperature is 17 C/63 F, that the prevailing winds are from the east, that the humidity is 42% and falling. All this he gathers as he walks across the Academy grounds from his apartment to the language building. The only other people out and about are cadets doing late laps around the commons, training, perhaps, for the upcoming city-wide half-marathon.

Once inside the language building he ascends the stairs two at a time, the automatic lights flickering on to keep up with him. As a general rule Spock prefers quiet, but the silence of the empty building is almost unnerving. If he had better control he would not have to resort to coming in when he knows Cadet Uhura will not be here…but since the day he accidentally revealed how much she occupies his thoughts, he is safer staying apart, keeping his focus on the external world—the phases of the moon, the chill of the night air—rather than take the measure of his own internal atmosphere.

He opens his office and goes immediately to his desk to type up a list for Cadet Uhura. To his surprise a work PADD is already lit and propped up, as if someone has left it there for him to find.

Cadet Uhura, naturally. He picks up the PADD and reads the short message.

_Finished everything on the list. Let me know what else I can do to help._

An odd message. The first sentence is self-evident and therefore unnecessary. The second sentence is strangely phrased, or with an unexpected tone. He puzzles over it for another minute before deciding that "_what else_ _I can do to help_" implies something beyond her normal duties—solicitous or friendly, like something his mother or a cousin would say.

Setting the PADD aside, he pulls up a set of tests and spends the next 35 minutes grading them. Then he picks up the PADD and reads it again, convinced that he's missed something elemental in the meaning. Perhaps she is asking for additional duties or is bored with her routine?

He circles around again to the incongruous phrasing. "What else I can do" is straightforward enough, but "to help" implies a personal calculus that throws him.

_Let me know what else I can do to help._

Not _tell me more work to do_ but _let me help you._ Except that he has expressed no need for additional help—or for any help at all.

Unless—and his ears grow warm with the idea—she means that on that day in the office when their minds had brushed together, she felt what he thought was deepest and most hidden—his quiet desperation, his complete and utter inability to dismiss or explain away his _feelings_ for her. If she is offering to help him set those feelings aside as the inappropriate and inconvenient emotions they are—

But how would she do that? Tell him directly that she knows what he is, what he thinks about? Remind him of the hopelessness of pursuing anything other than a professional relationship with her? Had she gotten a sense of T'Pring in the brief incursion into his thoughts? That was before he flew to New York and found Stonn gloating in T'Pring's room, not bothering to hide their infidelity.

Does Nyota—Cadet Uhura—know that he's already surreptitiously, shamefully, consulted the Starfleet code of conduct governing fraternization? Not because he intends to act on his _feelings_, but because his eidetic memory inexplicably failed him when he tried to recall the exact rules?

Not knowing what she knows is intolerable. Briefly he closes his eyes and tips his head up, searching for some equanimity. Useless—as useless as his hours of sitting cross-legged in front of his _asenoi_, as useless as the extra _suus mahna_ sessions. Opening his eyes, he picks up the PADD once more.

Somewhere there's a key to what she means.

Almost of their own accord, his fingers drift over the screen. Several seconds later, a reverse chronology of the cadet's note and all its editions queue up. Tapping past the most recent one, Spock reads the one immediately before it.

_I met with the two students who needed an additional tutorial on Triskalien fricatives and set up another lesson. Hopefully it will be as useful as the last one. The post office was closed when I went during my lunch break but I mailed your packages after work. Since there was no hurry for their delivery, I assumed that would be okay. You received no personal notices to forward to your comm queue—at least not while I was here. Sorry I missed you. Let me know if there is anything I can do to help._

In his side his heart beats so hard that he presses the fingers of his right hand against it. Every point of her note is an answer to the detailed one he wrote—and deleted. Somehow she's managed to read it anyway.

If she read that earlier draft, then she might have read the ones before it—

Struggling to keep his hand from shaking, he tabs open an even earlier draft of her note.

_Commander Spock, If I've done something that is keeping you away from the office, please let me know._

That she blames herself for his absence is inexcusable. He presses his fingers again to his side, willing his heartbeat to slow down. Somehow he has to restore a measure of normalcy to his work schedule. Obviously his current actions are causing Cadet Uhura distress. How to proceed, however, is unclear.

The PADD in his hand shows one more time-stamp earlier than all the others. Spock tabs it open.

_Can we talk?_

Is it talking if they read each other's erasures? If they sort through what didn't get said to find the truth?

And what if that truth must always remain hidden?

He can never confess to her what he barely admits to himself—that as distracting as her presence is, her absence causes him very real pain.

In the meantime he is the one causing pain, his schedule distressing her in a way he never intended. Tomorrow he'll resume working the day shift when she's there, coming up with an explanation for his temporary disappearance. A lie of necessity—or better yet, the kind of vague dodge that Vulcans use for misdirection.

"Something unexpected required my attention," he will say, not untruthfully, his tone suggesting the discussion is closed. "I was remiss in not speaking to you about it sooner."

**A/N: Yikes! Fitting this story into an already existing canon is more difficult than I anticipated! I don't want to retell what I've already written, but those touchstones are important in understanding what these characters are feeling and doing. In this chapter, for instance, I allude to several events rather quickly—Spock's Brodhead Prize, the memorial for the **_**USS Camden**_**, and Spock's discovery that T'Pring and Stonn are together. Each of those events is described at length in "What We Think We Know," and believe it or not, "Subtext" will move beyond that period. Thanks for being so patient and supportive!**


	7. Ghostwriters

**Chapter Seven: Ghostwriters**

**Disclaimer: No money made!**

Leonard McCoy leans across the table and taps Nyota on the wrist. "Go home," he says, the half-empty glass of bourbon at his elbow making his Georgia drawl even slower and more honeyed than usual. "Go home before you lose another hand. You're off your game tonight, missy."

From anyone else this would be an insult. From McCoy it is a simple statement of truth. The stakes at the weekly Academy poker nights—surreptitious and unsanctioned but widely known—aren't large. With a glance at her chips Nyota sees that she's lost fewer than 20 credits. Not much, but more than she's used to losing. Her mind is elsewhere.

Still, she hates to void the field so early. Poker night is Gaila's night _in_—to entertain guests, usually, or so Nyota assumes. She makes a point of being out of the dorm for several hours every Thursday night.

"I'm okay," Nyota says, meeting McCoy's gaze. After a beat he shrugs and reshuffles the cards.

"Suit yourself," he says. With a flick of his wrist, he sends cards sliding around the table. Four players including her; a small crowd, though not a surprise. Exams began last week and cadets who haven't finished and left for home are hunkered down in the library studying.

That's where she should be—not here watching her small cache of credits dribbling away because she can't focus.

No, not _can't_ focus. She can focus just fine. Just not on poker.

Her attention keeps drifting back to the language department holiday party two days ago—and the book of Vulcan poetry Commander Spock gave her. Not just Vulcan poetry but erotic poetry so highly charged and sensual that Nyota is still unsure how to respond. More times than she can count she's pulled out her PADD to craft some clever thank you—only to stammer and flutter to a draw.

Small, compact, with a cover of lavender slubbed silk, the book would have been a delight no matter what the contents, a thing of beauty and artistry in its own right.

But the words inside: Startling in their naked emotion—unabashed, frank, passionate.

_I am drawn to you against my will. I ravish you in my dreams._

With those lines everything she thought she knew about Vulcans was turned upside down. Everything she thought she knew about the Commander….

Is the book a hidden message? Or a subliminal one? A reflection of what she glimpsed in the Commander's mind the day she slipped in the office and he caught her in his arms, their thoughts joining briefly before she pulled herself upright, unsure if the longing she sensed was his or her own?

And if it is, what should she do? Ignore it? Pretend ignorance?

Or if there's no subtext at all to his gift? If the poetry is merely an example of pre-Surakian literature, interesting as an artifact of an ancient time and nothing more? What should she say then? That she appreciates the education, the expansion of her vocabulary?

She grins, remembering the Vulcan dictionary she was forced to download just to be able to read the more explicit poems.

"What's so funny?" McCoy says, scooping his cards into his hand and fanning them out. Nyota follows suit, making an idle note that she has a pair of jacks and nothing else worth saving.

"Three," she says, still grinning, determined to dodge the question. McCoy frowns and counts out her cards.

She loses that hand in short order, and the next two. Just as she's decided to call it a night after all, the other two players bow out and she and McCoy are left at the table eyeing each other.

"So," the doctor says, tipping his glass up, "you gonna tell me what's going on?"

"Nothing," Nyota parries.

"Sweetheart," McCoy says, "don't lie to me. I'm your friend, remember? If you can't tell me the truth, at least don't give me a lie."

What a temptation it is to tell him everything—her confusion about her feelings for the Commander, her greater confusion about his feelings for her. Leonard McCoy's been a friend almost as long as she's been at the Academy, and he's bent her ear on multiple occasions about his own grief—a marriage gone sour, a daughter he doesn't see often enough. His personal sorrows have made him a sympathetic listener. Nyota imagines that his patients are rarely fooled by his gruff demeanor.

"It's just that—" she begins. McCoy folds his arms and settles back in his chair to hear her out. Nyota sifts through what to tell him—and how much.

"It's just that I need to write a thank you note to someone, and I'm not sure what to say."

For a moment McCoy is so still that she wonders if he heard her. Then he snorts and reaches for his glass.

"You're joking, right? A thank you note? Here I was ready to dispense all my wisdom, too. Heartbreak, failing grades, personal tragedy—I was ready. But if it's etiquette you need help with, you're asking the wrong guy."

He starts to rise and Nyota says, "Well, it's complicated. It's for a gift that's…personal, not the kind you'd give just anyone."

At that McCoy slumps back into his chair.

"What does that mean? And it better not mean what I think it means."

Nyota darts a glance at McCoy—and is startled to see such a fatherly look of concern that she hesitates.

"It's nothing to worry about," she says, still watching McCoy. His face relaxes a fraction and she continues. "Someone gave me a book of poetry—"

At that McCoy's expression changes again, this time complete with eye rolling.

"Poetry!" he says, picking up his glass and finishing off the bourbon. "Here's my advice. Don't send a thank you note at all. Discourage that kind of thing. Nip it in the bud. Poetry, indeed!"

"You aren't a fan."

"Of poetry? Why can't people just say what they mean! Poetry's just another chance to say something wrong and be misunderstood. There's enough of that kind of miscommunication in the world without adding to it with poetry!"

Nyota puts her palms flat on the table, disappointed that McCoy is so dismissive and unhelpful. Her face must give her away, for he reaches across the table and taps her wrist as he had earlier.

"But then," McCoy says, "you haven't told me everything. Have you?"

Squirming, Nyota shrugs.

"It's…it's love poetry."

McCoy's eyebrows shoot up. "You have an admirer. So what? You don't return the feeling?"

"I don't know," Nyota hears herself blurt out. "I mean, I do, but I'm not sure—"

"You're not sure this relationship is right? That it will work?"

Rather than answering, Nyota shrugs again. McCoy snorts loudly.

"Take it from me, kid, the odds are it isn't going to work out. So my advice is, don't expect it to and you won't get hurt."

"But I can't say nothing—"

"Then lie and say the poems are _beautiful._ That's still a word, right? Covers a lot of ground, clean and simple. Say you're touched_._ Or grateful. Or maybe just flattered. Then say a big ole _no_. You don't have time for this, heading into your senior year. What will a romance do except distract you and pull down your grades? Hell, it's already wrecking your poker game. Isn't that enough of a warning?"

"Thank you but _no_?"

"Thank you but an _emphatic_ no. That's my advice, for what it's worth."

"It's just that—"

"What?"

"Well, I don't know that he's actually _asking_ me for anything—"

"You said it was love poetry," McCoy says, lifting his glass again and peering inside. "Nobody gives love poetry without some agenda behind it."

"_He_ might," she blurts out. "I mean, he's a language professor, and the poetry is a good example of—"

At once she realizes her mistake. McCoy's relaxed, friendly booziness evaporates. He sits up unnaturally straight and crosses his arms like an interrogator.

"Your _professor_ gave you love poetry?"

"Not a professor I have now, but one I know."

"An Academy professor?"

"Of course," she says, beginning to feel irritated. "But not one I'm taking a course from now."

"But a professor. Here."

Squelching her annoyance, Nyota nods. "You see why it's…complicated."

"Turn him in," McCoy says. "What he's done is inappropriate. At the very least, it's making you uncomfortable. He deserves to be censured for that. If you won't report him, I will."

With a wave of alarm, Nyota says, "It's not like that, really. He's probably not even aware of the…meaning…or symbolism….of the poetry. He comes from a different culture that doesn't recognize those kinds of relationships. I'm sure when I explain it to him, he'll be mortified."

McCoy is clearly skeptical, his mouth turned down, his eyes narrowed.

"So what are you asking me, then?"

Nyota takes a deep breath. "He gave it to me two days ago and I need to acknowledge it. It was a gift, after all. I can't pretend it didn't happen."

"How about _thanks for nothing_," McCoy says tartly. "_Thanks for complicating your life. Thanks for putting you in an awkward position._"

"I can see you aren't going to be any help." She pushes back her chair and starts to rise.

"I'm serious," McCoy says, getting to his feet. "If you feel compelled to write something, tell him what a pain in the ass he is."

"Right now you're the bigger pain," she says, stepping around the end of the table and pecking McCoy on the cheek. "Lesson learned. Don't ask a grump for advice."

She walks to the door of the smoky basement dorm room and leaves before McCoy can say anything else. On one hand, he's right. Commander Spock's gift has complicated her life. She's seen him only once since he gave it to her—this morning at his office, Professor Artura making sly innuendos over tea in the breakroom, the Commander leaving abruptly soon afterwards and not answering his comm since, almost as if he's dropped off the planet.

All the more reason to reassure him that she's not reading too much into the poetry, that she understands his intent in giving it.

…except that she doesn't. She almost stumbles over the short steps at the entrance of her dorm. _Focus, Nyota_.

To her relief, the room is empty, Gaila nowhere in sight. Pulling her PADD into her lap, she tucks her legs under her and leans against the headboard of her bed.

_Thank you for the book of poetry. I'm very touched. _

Isn't that what McCoy suggested? A safe grandmotherly word like _touched_? Or was it grateful? A word implying some sort of transaction. Or flattered? Even more provocative, with a hint of an implied future transaction.

She deletes the last sentence. Better to leave her emotions out of the equation altogether and instead make the note about the book itself.

_Thank you for the book of poetry. It is—_

Surprising. Interesting. Instructive. Suggestive. Intimate.

She says each adjective out loud in turn, feeling the syllables in her mouth like uncomfortable pebbles.

_Thank you for the book of poetry. I hope to talk to you soon about it. It is beautiful._

There. As McCoy said, a word that covers a lot of ground, clean and simple. A functional thank you, sufficiently vague if Spock meant nothing untoward, sufficiently on guard in case he did.

Before she can rethink her decision, she presses her thumb to the PADD and sends the message on its way. Now to wait for a reply, if there is one.

X X X

Spock's PADD chimes softly, an indication of an incoming message. Glancing around at the other passengers on the shuttle, he notes their relative inattention and glances at the name of the sender. _Cadet Uhura_. Before he can change his mind, he tabs the screen closed and leans back into the shuttle seat, closing his eyes briefly.

It isn't characteristic for him to avoid a necessary action this way, yet here he is, not reading her note, not composing a reply. He also owes her a thank you for what was obviously a carefully chosen gift she gave him at the language department holiday party—a handcrafted mug by the same potter who threw his _asenoi_. The day he purchased his firepot, Cadet Uhura had been with him, his invitation that she join him as he shopped just the kind of impulsive behavior he has always prided himself on avoiding.

"You can't control everything," his mother often told him. "Not even yourself." And here he is proving her right.

He opens his eyes and considers reading the mail. _Dread_ isn't a word he often associates with himself, but he dreads reading it. It will not be pleasant.

The odds are that she is taking him to task for something—for leaving for Vulcan unannounced, for not answering the door when she stopped by his apartment last night. For slipping up in word and deed and letting her know—and admitting to himself at last—that his emotions are governing his behavior in a way that is shameful.

Worst of all is the book, of course. Weeks ago he'd asked his mother to find it in his room at home and send it to him—ancient Vulcan poetry that until lately has been more baffling than anything else. He'd bought it years ago and has puzzled over it ever since, the explicit sexuality not nearly as discomfiting as the unabashed emotions, each line giving words to the kind of longing and possession and despair Spock had never experienced firsthand.

Until now.

He'd hoped that the book would be a salve—or at least a rudder—but if anything reading it again has made him feel more at sea, hopeless and lost. When he'd taken to carrying it with him everywhere he was dimly alarmed. When Cadet Uhura saw it in his pocket and assumed it was for her, he was horrified.

Even now he flushes as he remembers handing it over to her when she demanded it, his misdirection about the contents tumbling out of his mouth before he could think straight.

"Pre-Enlightenment poetry," he told her, careful not to meet her gaze. "You might find it…interesting."

"You Vulcans think everything is _interesting_," his mother often teased when he, in her estimation, overused the word. "On Earth, _may you live in interesting times_ is a curse."

Again his mother proves prescient. Spock powers his PADD on and opens a screen to compose a message to Cadet Uhura.

Somehow he has to explain away the gift of the book. The authors, T'Quir and Kohlar, lived so long ago that little is known about them other than what they reveal in their poetry. Lovers, mates, companions—their book is a compilation of paired poems to each other. When he reads them, Spock feels like an unwanted intruder.

That Cadet Uhura is now reading those same poems is almost unbearable.

_About the book of poetry, much of the language is obsolete. Rather than attempt a modern translation, your time would be better spent reading more current authors. I can recommend some to you when I return in several days._

There. He can't be any clearer. The book should not be read. The language is…inappropriate.

On the other hand, Cadet Uhura has proven unusually tenacious in the past where language is concerned. No other student, for example, has even attempted to learn Trill, much less master the formal _and_ the familiar dialects. Telling her that the book is too obsolete for a translation might, in fact, encourage her to attempt it.

His heart hammers in his side. With the swipe of his finger, he erases the message. Perhaps the best thing to do is say nothing—and hope that she's busy with exams and final projects and has not looked at the book at all. When he sees her again in person he can suggest she set it aside—or return it to him in exchange for something more contemporary and less…descriptive.

That still leaves the matter of the thank you note for the mug. Everything about the mug is aesthetically pleasing—from the imperfect shape to the potter's fingermarks visible through the glaze. Cadet Uhura could not have chosen one closer in design to his _asenoi. _When she placed it in his palm after the party, her face bright with anticipation, he struggled not let his hand shake.

He should have written a thank you that evening, before he had time to consider any possible subtext to her gift, before he decided to flee to Vulcan for a few days to sort out his disturbing lack of focus and accidental slips of the tongue.

His mother would not be pleased. Long ago he'd learned not to question her insistence that he show appreciation or gratitude, at least with his human family.

"Your grandmother went to a great deal of trouble to send this to you," his mother told him the year he turned eight. "You need to write her to thank her."

Spock stood in the middle of the family room, the opened birthday package spread out on the sofa beside him. He held up the bulky knit sweater with sleeves too short and a neck too narrow to be comfortable.

"We should send it back," Spock said. "She may wish to give it to someone else."

His mother pursed her lips and sighed.

"That would hurt her feelings," she said. "She picked it out for you."

"But I do not want it," Spock said, "and her feelings do not concern me."

Compared to his father, his mother's emotional state was easy to discern. Right then her displeasure was apparent—but to his surprise, her anger was directed at him rather than at his grandmother who had failed to do sufficient research into his current size and clothing needs.

"Other people's feelings _better_ concern you!" she said as she rounded on him. Taking the sweater from his hands, she added, "And whether or not you _want_ what someone gives you isn't the reason you thank them! You thank them for _thinking_ of you!"

"But Grandmother's thoughts about me were incorrect," Spock said. "She is unaware that my current height is—"

"Spock! Are you deliberately misunderstanding me?"

His mother's face was pinched and flushed. Through their shared bond he could tell that her question was not rhetorical, that she thought he might be doing what she called _stonewalling_. This time, however, he was not. His confusion was sincere.

With a rush, his mother dropped the sweater to the sofa, took several steps to the side table, picked up a PADD, and returned, placing it in his hands. He looked down at it and back up, baffled.

"Write," his mother said. "You tell your Grandmother that you appreciate her gift. You tell her that you know she went to a lot of trouble to send it and you are grateful. Even if you don't mean it, you tell her that, Spock. And you make it sound like you mean it!"

With that she stormed away. He listened as her footsteps banged a retreat down the hall and the front door opened and shut with a shudder.

The noise brought his father from his study.

"Explain," Sarek said simply, and Spock struggled to keep his voice steady.

"Mother went outside," he said, looking down at the PADD on his lap. "She is…unhappy with me."

He expected his father to retreat into his study and shut the door as he usually did, leaving Spock and his mother to sort out their differences. This time, however, Sarek sat down beside him on the sofa. For a moment, neither said a word, and then Spock let his words tumble out in a heap—reporting his mother's scolding and his bewilderment about what to do next.

"Your mother," Sarek said, "wants you to know how to participate fully in human social interactions."

"She is asking me to lie," Spock replied. His father's expression didn't change but Spock could sense some subterranean emotion—amusement or surprise, or something equally mild.

"When humans give gifts to each other, the expected response is to offer words of gratitude," Sarek said. Before Spock could interrupt, he added, "What matters most is that you recognize the effort of the giver, regardless of the gift."

"But Grandmother did not make sufficient effort," Spock said. "If she had, the sweater would fit."

"She made the kind of effort she could make," Sarek replied. "Your Grandmother sees you rarely and her judgment of your expected growth was faulty, but that does not mean you do not owe her a thank you."

"I am not thankful."

Sarek's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Not for the gift, perhaps, but you should endeavor to be thankful for your Grandmother's good wishes. Not everyone has them."

It was a veiled allusion to Sarek himself, to the difficult relationship he had with Amanda's mother. Not that Grandmother Grayson had ever said anything disparaging about him in Spock's hearing, but their infrequent visits to her home in Seattle were fraught with the tension of what _didn't_ get said.

The sofa rocked gently as his father rose, his footsteps tracing the same path down the hall and out the front door as his mother. Taking a deep breath, Spock opened the PADD and wrote _Dear Grandmother, Thank you for the sweater. I appreciate the effort you made in sending it to me._

The note was, he knew, incomplete. His mother would insist that he comment on the gift itself. Curving his fingers around the stylus, he typed _the sweater is well crafted._ He didn't know that for certain, but he assumed his Grandmother would not send him something of inferior quality.

Still, the sentence bothered him as unnecessary—a statement of the obvious. Striking it out, he wrote _the sweater is acceptable._ High praise if his Grandmother were Vulcan, but Spock recalled his mother's sour look the last time he told her a meal she had labored over was acceptable.

"I should hope so!" she snapped, and Spock had darted a glance across the table to his father who carefully avoided meeting his gaze.

With a click, he deleted _acceptable_.

The sweater was an interesting shade of blue; it was warm when he slid his hand into the too-short sleeve; it was agreeably soft to his touch. Spock ran his fingers over the sweater on the sofa and searched for a word to describe it.

_The sweater is aesthetically agreeable_, he wrote.

"Not bad," his mother said when she came in from watering her rose bushes, her mood considerably brighter. "But let's change 'aesthetically agreeable' to something less…distant or formal. I know, I know—it's what you mean. But try to speak to your Grandmother in her language, not yours."

It was frustrating, this onus on the writer to prevent miscommunication. Spock took the PADD and sat in his room until the evening meal. When his father called him to come eat, he set the PADD on the table at his mother's place and watched as she read his final draft.

_Dear Grandmother, Thank you for the sweater. I appreciate the effort you made in sending it to me. It is beautiful._

An afternoon wasted and all he could think of was _beautiful_, a word so anemic and paltry that it was almost meaningless. Every human he knew used the word for such a diverse array of objects and actions that Spock had long ago stopped accepting it as a valid assessment of anything.

His mother's roses were _beautiful,_ the sunset was _beautiful_, the graceful sprint of an accomplished athlete was _beautiful_, and so on.

Yet for all that, the word seemed to resonate, too, like the time his cousin Anna told him that his speed and prowess with math was beautiful. Or his _ka'athyra_ teacher used the word to describe an original composition he played for her.

Or all the times he overheard his father murmur it in his mother's ear, her smile lighting up her face, her face lifting like a sunflower.

His mother set the PADD back on the table and nodded, her eyes glistening.

"Grandmother will like this, Spock," she said. "She'll like this very much."

A distant bell brings him to the present—an announcement that the artificial gravity has been turned on and passengers on the shuttle flight to Vulcan are free to move around. Blinking, Spock looks at the empty page of his PADD waiting for his thank you note.

_Thank you for the mug. I appreciate the effort you made in purchasing it for me. _

It's true. He is thankful, not just for the mug itself but for Cadet Uhura's care in matching it to his _asenoi_.

_It is aesthetically pleasing_, he adds. Cadet Uhura—Nyota—will understand that his words are not as distant, as formal, as they might sound. Unparalleled among the humans he knows, she won't mistake what he writes and what he means.

Or so he hopes.

On further reflection, this is not quite what he means. Angling the PADD to see the screen without a glare, he frowns slightly and taps out a correction.

_Thank you for the mug. I appreciate the effort you made in purchasing it for me. It is beautiful._

With another tap he sends the note on its way and takes a deep breath before opening the mail from her.

**A/N: For everyone waiting on this tardy update, my sincere apologies. RL has thrown a few curve balls lately, but writing and hearing from readers is such a joy that I'm trying to move forward. Thanks for your support!**

**Sarek gives little Spock a lesson on gift giving in Chapter 14 of "What We Think We Know." That's also the chapter where Nyota and Spock exchange the problematic gifts of book and mug.**


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